Wednesday, December 24, 2008

it had become ridiculoushe’d open up shop at seven AMand I’d get there at tenit was too cold to stand around outsideso we’d each sit in our own carswe’d keep the windows rolled down a crackso that every now and thenwe could turn to the other and say,“this fuckin’ blows, huh?”we were valet parkingin a place where nobody valet parkedso insteadwe just sat around all daywatching the clockmaking minimum wageand trying as best we couldto enjoy our miserythe place was called Diamond Resorts Internationalbut he’d coined the nameDiamond Penitentiaryaround two he’d cut out earlyand one or two cars would pull inthis was terriblebecause I wasn’t allowed to leaveuntil every car was goneor until six PMso I’d sit theretapping my fingers on the steering wheeltexting friendsreading now and thenuntil it got darkthen I’d sit there in the darkrain sometimes drizzling downjust generally hating the working lifethe imposed slaverybut then finally quitting time would comeand I’d rush homecrack a beer and hit the keysand then nothing seemed too bad

the Kid had quit the drinking gamemoved out to the desertwas never heard from againNielson was still down southstill at itdeep inside the bottlebreaking into apartmentsto sleep in bathtubsswerving along the highwayshead out the windowunlicensed and insanethe hood of his carsmashed up against his windshieldand there I washeaded back to Port Citycross another countryanother timeto fight the winterand keep at the writing gameeverywhere I went around the worldthe words were my companionsmy drinking buddiesmy travel partnersrunning through floodwaters in Jakartaabandoned on a roadside in the Outbackin broken down hotels of Aleppodancing all night longin the smoky bars of Sarajevoon that goddamn Nantucket islandwhere they first found meor I first found themeven on fire escapes in Wilmingtonthe country saloons in Austinthrough the casinos of Las Vegasback over the mountains to the angry Pacificwhere I visited a few old hauntsbut didn’t even bother touch the waterfeel it on my fingersI think back over the past months and thinkhell, it’s been quite a year

it was in Decemberbefore ChristmasI was hiding under the coversfrom my hangoverI was in Las VegasI thinkit looked like a desertout therebut thenthe whole world was lookin’pretty drythis headacheit wouldn’t budgethen she called me upshe called me upevery few monthsto yell in my eartell me to stop drinkingstop wasting my timestop wasting my lifemake something of myselfshe was always high on grasswhen she called me upand she’d come at melike a raging stormtalk about meaning and godand finding your callingthis particular morningI started laughingmy head hurt so muchthat laughter was the only thingI could understand“Jack,” she yelled into the phone“I’m serious! You have talentbut you’re just gonna let it go to waste!Cut the shit!”“oh!” I bellowedpulling the phone away from my faceseeing a great opportunityto use one of those classic scapegoat linesthat she and so many other peopleI’d met throughout liferepeated like a holy mantra“oh! YOU cut the shit!Don’t you know,EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON!?”

Sunday, December 21, 2008

GET THE HELL OUTTA HEREI was in my officebanging on the keysthe Kid called me upsaid he was coming overI told him not tobut he came over anywaywalked right inpast my barking, snarling doghe had on a trench coatcolor of coffee with too much creamwaltzed right into my officegrunted a few timesmade for my allergy medicationsaid, “hey, what are these?”“what do you want?” I asked himhe looked at the little cactuson my desklike it was the first timehe’d ever seen the little cactuson my desk“what do you want?”“I wanted to seeif you wanted to go to BNGand get some coffee with me.”“get the hell outta here!”I yelled at himhe stood there a momentthen walked back outpast my barking, snarling doginto his jeepdrove off10/16/06

VODKA, STUPIDvodkait’s a stupid liquor, reallymakes me tap the wrong keysmakes me tired and want to sleepto not fight anyonenot climb buildingsor run on the hoods of carsnot do anything amazingbut that’s what I’m drinking tonightwhile I sit hereeyes dry and burningheart beating now and thenstomach churningI need a burritothat’s what I’ve been thinkingfor the last half hourI’ve been writingbut more so I’ve been thinkingabout how good a burritowould taste right nowsmothered in Tabascothat’ll burn coming outit’s Sunday and nobody’s awakenot even that bastard who calls me upevery night and tells me he’s gonna kill memaybe it’s another quiet night in Port City10/16/06

BUDDYI was at my desktickling the keyswhen I heard a terrible shout“aaaahhhh!!! Buddddddy!!Buddy, come here! Come here, Buddy!!”a kid sprinted into my drivewaypast my windowsoon there was moreyelling and screamingand a pungent, filthy smellcame in through my open windowit was one of those horrid smellsyou can taste but can’t spit out“Buddy! Buddddy!! Come here boy!!”I listened for a few minutessometimes you don’t know what to doso you do nothingthe boy carried onhis voice shooting outfrom different areasaround the housefinally I pulled on a shirtpicked up a flashlightwent outsideBuddy was in the woodsbehind the neighbor’s housea skunk clamped in his jawsother people descended on the scenefamily or friendsflashlights darted around in the black nightI turned around and walked awayglad that Buddy wasn’t my dogthat I didn’t have to clean himand take him to the vetand more than anythingI was glad that finally somethinghad gotten that goddamned skunk

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

THE SHOCKERI’d had this problem for a few monthswhere every time I got out of a carI got shocked when I touched the doorit didn’t matter which type of caror how far I’d drivenor the weather or anything like thatit was just that without failI’d become electrifiedas soon as I sat in a driver’s seatit was annoying at firstbut then when I got a jobas a valet parking attendantfor an office buildingit got worsethe same people came in every dayto valet their carsand when they came out to retrieve themthey’d reach out to give me a tipand in exchange I’d give them a nasty little shockhow do you react to that situation?a shock is a weird thingit’s not like I bumped into themor said something rudefor which I needed to apologizebut day after day the tips grew smallerand I noticed that when the people came outthey avoided meand tried to hand their ticket to the other valetsthe ones who didn’t hurt themand the ones who got stuck with meI’d bring up their carsand they’d very carefully hold out their tipand let it fall into my handsif they gave me one at alldays went by and then weeksand when I left on my lunch breaksI’d notice cars that used to valetwould be parked blocks awayon all the side streets around the office buildingall the other valets stopped speaking to meand finally it got so badthat the operations manager came downto see what the hell was going onto see why we were parking so few carshe came up to the valet stationand we parked his carhe spoke with usasked us some questionsthen went inside the office buildingspoke with some of the personnel when he came out he said,“ok, let’s do a quality check.”he looked at me and said,“you, go get my car.”all the other valets looked onwith excitement in their eyesI snatched his keys and ran to get his carhoping the quality checkwouldn’t involve him actually leaving a tipbut it didwhen I opened the doorI cautiously reached out for the dollar bill in his handbut it was no usehe had heard all the stories and complaints about meno doubtand he purposely banged his hand against mineand quickly retreated“ouch, Christ!” he snapped,after I gave him a nice one“are you Jack Tom?” he askedI looked around and hesitated “yes, sir.”“Jack,” he said, pushing the tip back into his pocket“here’s a better tip. Go get yourself another job.”

Monday, December 15, 2008

MIND CONTROLone day at the valet standJohnny turned to me and said,“I ever tell you about that dudewho worked herewho believed that peoplewere controlled by satellites?”“yeah,” I said, not looking up from my book.“that thing about how they controlled people’s mindsand put thoughts in their heads?”“yeah, yeah,” said Johnny. “well, I thought he was nutsbut then I hear this guy come outwith a cd called Mind Controland he got this song about that same thing.Crazy shit, huh?”“yeah, sure,” I responded. “sure is.”a few minutes passedand I went back to reading my book.“hey, man. I seen on the news the other nightthat they caught a witch.”“oh, yeah?” I said, turning to seea very concerned expression on his face“yeah, man. For sure. It was on the Spanish channel.”“well, all right then,” I said, smilingwe all had our little quirksour little interests and theories we believed inideas to sprinkle on realitywhen you needed to spice things up

JOB RANTin my job as a valet parking attendantat some timeshare company’s corporate headquartersthe work entailed doing just about nothingand doing that for 8 or 10 hour stretcheswe had this little stand that we leaned onor walked circles aroundI say ‘we’ because the company didn’t just want one valetstanding there doing nothingthey wanted two or threeoccasionally one of us would say,“hey, I’m gonna take a walk around the building,”or “hey, I’m gonna go hit the shitter.”we did anything to pass the timethere was this other valet named Johnnyhe was a cool cata twenty year old Salvadoran gangbangerwho raced streetcars and rappedand had a kid on the way with his 17 year old girlfriendhe’d tell me stories about getting shotor stealing carsthat sorta thinghe’d done a lot and seen a lotand I liked that about himbut then there was this other valet named Jasonhe hadn’t done much or seen muchand he didn’t speak much, eitherbut when he did it was usually a dragone day he came up to usand interrupted one of Johnny’s stories to say,“hey, you guys ever heard of a warrant?”“yeah, Jason,” said Johnny. “we heard of a warrant.”“no, no. A war ant. A war ant! Get it?”“sure, Jason. A war ant. We get it.”He piped down and Johnny went on with his storyit was about a bar fightwhere he’d smashed a beer bottle over some guy’s faceafterwards we stood around for a while in silencerocking back and forth on our feetchecking the time every few minutesanything to pass the timeI thought Johnny might get a kick out of a story I hadme and a friend running from the police in Guatemalaso I started to tell itnot far in Jason came back up to us“hey, guys. What I meant before was war – rant. War – rant, get it?”we looked at each otherand then back to him and we both said,“yeah, Jason. We get it.”I was about to go back into the story I was tellingbut instead I turned to Johnny and said,“hey, I’m gonna take a walk around the building.”and that was itthat was how the days passed byand in the nights I drank the winedid some writing and looked for another job

VALET PARKINGI had this job parking cars in Las Vegasit was very easy and paid very littleI mainly just sat there in a chairor stood by the valet standor walked around in circlesI was between two corporate office buildingsand all day people would walkback and forth between the two buildingssome would say helloand some wouldn’toccasionally a person would drive upask for directionsand I’d tell them I wasn’t surebecause I really wasn’t sure of anythingin those daysthis one time a woman was walking byshe stopped in her trackssniffed twice and looked up at the skythen she turned to me and said,“hmm. Smells like rain.”without thinking I sniffed twicelooked up at the blue, cloudless sky“yeah, it sure does.”it was one of those interactionsyou have with somebodywhere your mind is just not therelike when you’re walking down the streetcontemplating suicidethen you see somebody you barely knowand they say, “hey, how’s it going?”and you say, “great. How ‘bout yourself?”

METER MAIDSthey are certainly a weird breedobnoxious phantom mercenariesfrom the Dept. of Public Worksdaytime vampireswho sneak along the streetspreying on your hard earned moneyduring the dayonly to disappear into the nightyou never run into your local meter maidat the grocery storeor the barthese sinister beingsprobably drive to other townsto do their grocery shoppingor put on disguises to go to a moviesadly aware that anyonewho recognizes themwill want to kick their ass

Thursday, December 11, 2008

THE SILENT POETthen there was this other guyhe hid out in the back of the cafésometimes sneaking outsideto smoke cigarettesand mumble to himselfbut it was always a huge dragwhen he got called up to the stagebecause he’d just grab the micand shoot these glancesaround the roomglances of shock and amazementpure astonishmentevery now and thenhe’d put the mic to his mouthand pretend like he was gonna say somethingbut no words would come outno words ever came outand after a few moments went byafter he’d sent his stupid glancesto every corner of the caféhe’d take a big bow and say,“thank you all very much.”

HE HAD A BETTER IDEAit was terrificI went to this poetry readingand decided to staymost times I’d just driveacross the entire city of Las Vegastake a look aroundand drive all the way homeother poets always scared the shit out of mebut anywaythere were all these peoplegetting upreading their workreally putting their hearts into itpulling from the depthslike they were makingtheir souls give birthbut then there was this dirty, old bastardhe kept taking the mic and saying,“now, here’s another one I wrote,”Then begin reciting the lyricsto some well known songpretending they really were his wordsSinatra and Bennetteven Dylanthis old bastard didn’t give a damnthe world was hisfinally the end of the night rolled aroundand as this professional copy catwas headed out the doora skinny kid with tight jeans said,“hey, those were some good poems.”the old man didn’t crack a smilesaid, “I know,”and walked outta thereI read over my sheets of paperover my own wordsthought, “fuck it,”and went straight to the bar

THE WISE WAYI was 28 and I had this jobwhere I was making $7.25 an hourit was a pay cut from when I’d mowed lawns15 years beforebut hell, you do what you gottathere was this girlmy managerthat worked thereshe was five years younger than meand didn’t know shit from shatbut she had a lot to sayseems like that’s the way it isin this worldthe more you know about thingsor the wiser you arethe less you saymaybe it’s because you just realizeit’s all a bunch of bullshit

THE ASSit was a beautiful day in Las Vegassun shining brightbut nice and cool outsideI went into the community clubhouseto use the exercise machinesin all the times I’d been in therewhich was only maybe six or sevenI’d never seen another personbut this time a girl came inshe had a pretty faceand a bounce in her stepI gave her a smile but it didn’t takeshe set her stuff downput earphones in her earsturned on the televisionand started walking on the treadmillI wondered why the hellshe wasn’t walking outsideon the nearby trailsor the sidewalksin the perfect weatheras I wondered this I stared at her assI stared for ten minutes straightthen realized I couldn’t tear my eyes awayit was just a perfect assI stared and stared and staredand then suddenly understood whyshe didn’t go out walkingor running on the trailsand the sidewalksthat ass wasn’t allowed outsideit would wreak havoc on the cityevery other bastard out therewould stare at that assmen in cars would stopand put it in reverseto get another glimpsethere’d be accidents and riotsover that assbirds would fall from the skyand the sun would be embarrassedin front of that assthe gods would weepand the world would go to warover that assno, no, I decidedit was very good that this girldid her working outinside that community clubhousegood for the worldand even better for me

THE BOTTLE IN THE DARKback there on Spring Streetbefore a bad breakup with the only girlthat ever really knew meI used to sit alone in the darkat nightat my deska bottle in one handsweat in the otherdoing battle with the great pain of birththe terrible fear of lifeand the seducing call of deathalone in the darkhands numbteeth numbmind on firethose were some of the best nights of my lifefeeling neither the bite of lonelinessnor the horror of being surroundedby all the bastards of the world

GAS STATION POETevery night I saw herit put a grin on my faceit meant that I was on my wayto better timesthat things were looking up“hello,” I’d say to herwhile walking past.“hey honey,” she’d replyI’d go into the coolercome out with a few quarts of beerand set them on the counter“it’s another night,” I’d laughshe’d smile her wrinkled smile and say,“oh, it’s another night, all right.Another lonely night.”

THE TRUTH THAT STINGES LIKE A THOUSAND BEESshe was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seenand I fucked it upme and my buddy Nielsonwould go to her bar once a weekfor their dollar drink specialwe were a couple of lunatics when we drank togetherpassing notes and making faceskeeping tally of who received more smilesfrom this particular waitresswho received more winksthat sort of thingbut one night I went in there and jumpedon the whiskey trainthe plastic handle whiskey trainthe rotgut rot mind whiskey trainI was having a hell of a ridebut then this girlI’d screwed a few nights before came inand everything went southshe ruined my spiritsbecause I had hoped to never see her againI became a desperate manstalked down Catherinethe most beautiful girl I’d ever seenand asked her to marry mewhen she laughed me off and walked awayI chased her down and asked againafter four tries I gave upstormed back to the tablewhere Nielson was trying to smooth things overwith the other girlI slammed my fist on the table and roared,“look what you’ve done! You’ve ruined me!You’ve ruined my chance to everget with the most beautiful girl in the world!”Catherine came back up to the tabletapped me on the shoulder and said,“no, Jack, she didn’t ruin your chance.”“what?” I shrieked with a madman’s glee“you ruined your own chance.”with that she smiled at mewinked at Nielson and strutted offwhile I ran out of that barclasping my head and screaming,“oh, the goddamn truth! It hurts!”

THE RIGHT DECISIONNelson texted me one nightsaid he was trying to schmooze his wayinto sleeping at his ex girlfriend’sparents’ housebecause he had no other place to stayI wrote back,“what happened to the Russian broad?”“in exchange for a place to sleep,chauffer services,use of her internet,cooking and sex,she wanted a relationship.FUCK THAT!”“what?!” I keyed in, laughing,“who the hell did she think she wasmaking those kinds of wild demands?”

THE WORST IT CAN GETwe were swapping wordsback and forthme and an old friend I’d seen oncein the past ten yearsmainly we spokeabout the terrible state of the economyhow I couldn’t get a job to save my lifehow he’d barely lucked into onefinally it occurred to meone daythat I was back out westLas Vegas, actuallyand that the worst it could getwould be that I’d just drive over thereto the coast of Californialive outta my jeep in a dirty parking lotand fight the bumsfor the empty beer cans in the trash.“I guess I can't complain,” I told him.“I've had a pretty good run.”

THIEVES AND BOOKSTORESup the street about a milethere was one of the big boy bookstoresI spent hours in there each dayreading bukowski, willy vlautin, hunter.I’d send out my resumeto ten employers in the morningleave for the bookstorein the afternoonit was closer than the libraryand better, tooa place to kill the hourswhen you wanted to get out of the pity hotel(which was your friend’s guest bedroom)but didn’t have money for the barsgood bookstores are like good booksyou can disappear in themfind hope or despairand that’s what I found in those dayshope and despairbecause the great authorswhose books I’d pick up and readwere far outnumberedby the volumes of horseshityet the horseshit got publishedright there along with the greatsit just confused the hell out of meso I’d finally leavewhen the sky had gotten darkand out there in the parking lotthe fool thieves wouldn’t believe mewhen I told them I didn’t have moneyeven for their cheap stolen entertainment systems

Thursday, November 20, 2008

I drove over to the DMV off Flamingo this past Monday, hoping to quickly and easily swap my New Hampshire driver’s license for a Nevada one. Of course there was a line out the fucking door. I waited for an hour and when I got to the front I got motioned over to a counter. The woman there took a quick look at my application, pushed a button and gave me a ticket.

“go wait over there until your number is called.”

Over there was this massive room with a hundred rows of plastic chairs. In the chairs or standing up were hordes of people waiting. Blacks, whites, latinos. Men and women and crying children. Acne covered teens and professionals doing business on their cell phones. Couples wearing spandex shorts or goth kids with their pale skin and the chains hanging from their faces. Americans, all waiting around in a place they didn’t want to be.

After two hours a pre-recorded voice called out “H 299, counter 7.” I went up to the woman at counter 7. She took my ticket and looked over my application and keyed some things into her computer. She told me that to get my Nevada driver’s license I’d have to pass a written test and a driving test. She pushed another button and gave me another ticket and pointed with her finger.

“go wait over there until your number is called.”

I walked back across the room with hundreds of people waiting in lines or on plastic chairs to a somewhat smaller room with only fifty people waiting. I sat down on a chair and said, “this is fucking unbelievable.”

Half an hour passed and the voice called out, “G 437, counter 42.”

I went to counter 42 and the woman there looked at my application and said, “you’ll need to take a written test. Take this ticket and when you’re called up, go into that room over there and go up to the desk.”

I sat back down and waited. Nearly an hour later the voice finally announced “B 543 counter 28.” I went into the room and up to the desk marked 28. I handed the man my application and my ticket.

“okay,” he said, “go to computer number 9, take the test and come back here when you’re done.”

I took the test and passed and went back up to the counter. The man scribbled something onto my application, punched a button and pulled out another ticket. He gave it to me and nodded.

“go over there to Driver Testing and give them this ticket.”

I snatched the ticket from his hand and took my application over to Driver Testing, muttering curses along the way.

When they called me up the kid at the booth looked at my application and said, “okay, the earliest I can get you in is December 18th, at two pm. That’s four weeks from tomorrow.”

“what?!” I shouted.

“yeah, we’re pretty busy, as you can see.”

I gazed over my shoulder at all the waiting areas, the hundreds of people milling about in lines that just crawled along. My heart sunk and I felt sick. But before I turned back to him he said, “wait a minute.”

I expected him to hand me another ticket but he didn’t.

“it looks like they spelled your name wrong here.”

I leaned in and murmured, “uh oh. What does that mean?”

He played around with his keyboard and glanced between my application, my passport and his computer screen.

“because of this, I have to input you in here which means I can schedule you for an appointment tomorrow at two pm. You’re very lucky.”

“well, shit,” I said. “this is what lucky feels like?”

I walked out the door hungry and exhausted. I thought about trying to bring my luck to a casino but decided against it. The single bag of chips I’d eaten that day couldn’t push me along any further. All the waiting had nearly killed me. So I went home and ate.

The next day I returned to the DMV. I got in line at Driver Testing. A man approached me coolly and said, “you look like you’ve got an appointment.”

I knew exactly what he wanted.

“man,” he said, clasping his hands together and bending at the knees, almost in prayer. “man, I will pay you to let me have your appointment. I swear, I’ll pay you!”

I thought back to the day before. The tickets and the hours of waiting. The prospect of not getting an appointment for a month. I thought about how I needed a job and would have a hard time getting one without that Nevada driver’s license. I thought about all of this in two seconds and said to him, “go wait over there. I’ve got to think about it.”

WINNING AGAINST LOVEseemed like everywhere I wenteverybody was talking about lovelooking for ithoping for itthat special someonethe soul matethe onethat they were meant to be withthe rest of their lifelucky for meI’d given up on that shitlong beforeand while other people sometimestold me that was sadlike I was losing outit made me feel like I was winningwithout even getting into the ring

SEVEN MINUTE LAUGHNielson, yeahyou’ve probably heard about himin some of my other writings he’d returned to Wilmingtonfrom some martial arts training seminarin Kansas Cityhe’d moved out of this old apartmentwe used to sharemoved all his stuff into storage before he leftbut when he got backhe had no place to sleep at nighttold me he figured he’d try the key in the lockthe key workedand nobody had moved in yetthe beers he’d stashedin the drawer of the fridgewere still therethe fool bastard called me up one nightwent on about how he’d snuck into the apartmentwas drinking the beersand throwing the cans at the wallsjust like we used to dothen when he had to throw uphe’d go to a corner and let it rippoor Nielsonhe called our old landlord todayto ask about his security depositturns out he never ended the leasebefore he left to go to Kansas Cityso there he waspaying $800 a monthto sneak into his empty apartmentwith his vomit in the cornersbeer cans on the floorsleeping in the bathtub with a dirty sheetall the while payingto store his furniture and belongingsa few blocks awayfor another hundred bucks a monthI burst out laughing when he told me thisdidn’t stop for seven minutes straightand that was only to ask him,“well, well, well. Who’s the jackass now?”

SUNDAY MORNINGSon Sunday morningsshe’d go to churchand I’d lie in my bedwith a can of cheap beerit only took a couplefor me to get rip roaring drunk againI’d call up my friendsall around the countrytell ‘em I was still a jobless manbut that I was havinga hell of a time with itI had the economy on my sidein those daysthe great, big scape goat“well,” I’d say,“with this economy and all,no use even botheringwith the job hunt.I’ll just sit tight and wait it outjust play around with the keysand if things get too bad, I can alwaysjust go out to the canyonand lay down to die.”

BEER GRINI found my place, againI’d known it for a few daysbut was keeping it a secrettrying to play it coollike it was nothing specialbut one night she came homelaughed and said to me,“so this is what I should expect, huh?That every time I come through the doorI’ll see you sitting thereat the kitchen table,pounding a huge bottle of beer?”what could I do but grinand write a little poem about it?

OH DEAR GODone of the more surprising thingsa man can experienceduring the humdrum of his dayis when he accidentallylifts up both seatsbefore sitting on the toiletholy Christwhat a shockwhen his ass cheeks hitthe cold, piss covered porcelainI’ll bet for a momenthe wishes he was backin mother’s arms,sucking at a warm titand knowing nothing about lifeor what’s in store for him

THOUSANDS OF MILESshe called me up one nightI knew she was drunk“what’s up?” I asked.“nothing,” she said.“well, where are you?”she’d been having some troublewith the asshole that had replaced meand I hoped it was something goodlike he’d stolen her caror beat up her sister“I’m over at Winston’s.”“Winston?!” I shouted.“who the fuck is Winston?!”“he’s a dog, Jack. I’m dog sitting.”“oh, jesus fucking christ! I thoughtit might be overwith you and that other guy.You had me excited for a minute there.”“hey, stop it.”“well, what do you want, drunky pants?” “I’m not drunk.”“yes you are. I can smell it.”“you can’t smell it. You’rethousands of miles away.”“I’ve told you about my sense of smell.”“all right, maybe a little.”“well, good. But what do you want? Hell,it’s three in the morning there.”“I just called to tell you,” she sniggered,“that I don’t drunk dial.”“what!? What the hell?”she was trying to hold it inbut I could hear her laughingshe caught her breath and said,“I don’t call you up when I’m drunk.”“you’re drunk right nowand you just called me. We’re talkingon the phone, you know.”“I know,” she said,beginning to laugh hysterically.I started laughing tooand had to give it to her,she was playing a good game.

A SICK FEELINGmaybe I was seven or eightwhen I discovered what it felt liketo slam a cat’s tail in the doorI’d gotten back from a sledding sessiontired and contentI was taking off my jacketand snow pants in the back hall.“hey,” somebody called out“shut the door!”I reached behind megrasped the handle and slammed it hardto let them know how I feltabout being told what to dobut the door didn’t closeit came closewithin an inch or twobut it didn’t closethere was this terrible cryI looked downsaw a black tailI pulled the door back and our catI don’t recall his name nowbolted into the garageI screamed and said,“I just slammed cat’s tailin the door! What do I do?”“shut the door!”

THE GUTjust like they all said it would it happened28 years oldand here comes the gutI never had much meat on my bones but now I have even lessthe gut has begun to take it allno padding on my assthese pencil thin legsI didn’t look that strange beforebut now I’ve got this gutthat grows an inch with each bottle of beerI stand in front of the mirrorget a side viewit sticks out over my pantslike there’s a fetus in therethat thought disgusts meI go outside in the desert windlight a cigaretteI’ll make it though this night

YOU CAN’T TEACH A DIRT DOG NEW TRICKSon televisionthere were all these showsabout fabulous Las Vegasthe 21 most sinful clubsor the hotel suites that costover twenty grand a nightwhere to go to see the celebsor blow a few thousand on crapsunder a crystal chandelierthose shows were a good reminder to meto get up and pound the keysI’d never be like those peopledidn’t care about two hundred thousand dollar carsbut I knew I’d always be able to make it anywaya quart of cheap beercosts less than two dollarsand I know plenty of peoplewith spare bedroomsor empty couches

THE WORLD WIDE WEBeach day I sent out my resumeto ten or twenty prospective employersI never heard a damn thing backI’d apply to be an assistant foremanor a dune buggy tour guidesign holder or carpet cleanerI never heard a word backI’d write these people emails on a daily basis,“I noticed that you’re still hiringfor pizza delivery drivers. Can I come infor an interview?”I never heard a single thing back after some timeI began to wonder about the internetif it wasn’t just some big scamsome electronic black holewhere hopes were sent to be buriedwith monkeysdead and frozen in spacelike maybe, just maybethere wasn’t any such thingas the world wide webI was just another asshole who’d gotten duped

MY FATHER’S GREAT AUNT BEATRICEthere were many nightsat the dinner table of my youthsilent and hopelessI sat in my chairchewed my foodwondered what the hell it was all aboutlife, living, I meanbut if it ever got too quietlike there wasn’t a spare wordmy father would clear his throat and say,“I used to have a great aunt,her name was Beatrice.She would cut her peas in halfwith a knife and a fork.”we’d all look at himchew our foodand wonder what the hell it was all about

SOME POEMSI had this poemI was about to writeI fuckin’ mean itit was all thought outeverything like thatand that’s a big deal to mebecause writing or notI don’t think things out beforeI do thembut when I put my fingersto the keysthe little bastardjust warpedto a different planetmaybe intoanother writer’s mindthat could be itsome asshole out theretelepathically ganked my little poemwell, what can you dobut move on with your lifeand try to dodge traffic

UNEXPECTEDthere’s a certain feeling you getafter speaking with an attractive girlwhen you go into a bathroomand see a crusty, bloody snotcrawling out of your nostrillet me tell youit’s not a good onebut if you’re like meand you have a sense of humorwhen it comes to interactionswith that other sexyou get over it pretty quick

LIVING ON PITY AND A FRIEND’S COUCHthere were times whenyou really just had to tap the keysin a nervous wayhope to hell that something came outbecause in the bottom right cornerof your laptop screenthe battery would go from fullto half fullto half emptyto emptythen when you saw the red X pop upyou raced to hit SAVElet out a sighand took a hit from your wineknowing you were still without a jobliving on pityand a friend’s couch

CHILDREN AT PLAYacross the ravinethe kids run and playthey must be playing hookyfrom schoolcars slide by along Town Center Aveand a pair of sirenshead east out of Summerlinafter a banshee screamthe kids are silentone two threefour secondsthen a young girl’s voiceshrieks out through the desert air,“ow, you fucking asshole!that really hurt my head!”

BY THE RAVINEout there on that patiothe ravine right over the fencedry, jagged mountainsat the edge of townit was always too hot in the suntoo cold in the shademade me think of lifehow for manyit’s either too much or too little

Sunday, November 9, 2008

I’d scheduled a job interview with this total fuckin’ asshole. I knew he was a total fuckin’ asshole because he was an old friend of mine. Around the time he turned eleven is when he started to go bad, and from that point on our encounters were unpleasant but luckily infrequent.

He ran this fancy dress shoe company. He was sleazy and uptight and he was the kind of person that made you nauseas to be around, like you had to take a shit. But, as we had a few mutual acquaintances and I desperately needed work, I thought I’d give it a try.

When I went into his office he reached out and shook my hand and said, “Jack, after all these years, you’re finally crawling to my door on your hands and knees…”

I wanted to sock him in the face but I reminded myself of my empty fridge in my empty apartment and my mailbox full of bills.

“Rick,” I replied, “how’ve you been?”

He winked at me and said, “Jack, I’ve been wonderful.”

We bullshitted for a while, what we’d been up to over the years, the women we’d slept with, that sort of thing.

But after enough time enduring his presence, I got this overwhelming urge to put my feet up on his desk. I had these dress shoes I’d gotten at a thrift store for $2.50. On the sole, in black magic marker was written, ‘$5.00,’ but on the day I’d bought them they were half off.

It became very obvious to me that I’d never be able to work for that jerkoff. His whole being just turned me off. That grin, his shiny white teeth, and the ever present knowledge that he had been and always would be a total fuckin’ asshole.

It didn’t take him too long to notice the writing on the soul of my shoe and he said, “Jack, those are nice shoes. What kind are they?”

I raised my hands in the air because I didn’t have a clue.

“Rick, I really don’t know. I’m not very interested in brands of dress shoes. In all truth, Rick, I really couldn’t give a damn.”

It was then that he got the impression I wasn’t too serious about the job.

“well, Jack, that’s no good. A man should really know what brand of shoes he’s got on his feet.”

I set my feet back on the floor and stood up, leaning over his desk.

“you know what, Rick? You know what a man should also know? A man should also know if he’s a TOTAL FUCKIN’ ASSHOLE!”

Rick frowned, utterly confused. I burst out laughing, right in his face, and kept hollering things like, “a total fuckin’ asshole!” and “that’s what you are, Ricky boy! A total fuckin’ asshole!”

I kept laughing and screaming all the way out to the street. When I’d had enough I removed one of my shoes and hucked it at one of his office windows. It shattered the lower pane. After a few moments I saw Rick’s face looking out at me through the broken glass. His sleazy grin was gone.

“so, Rick,” I shouted. “are you gonna give me the job, or are you gonna be a TOTAL FUCKIN’ ASSHOLE!?”

Saturday, November 8, 2008

IN VEGASeverybody was always partying downhittin’ the clubs and the casinosblowin’ all sorts of cashthey probably didn’t havelookin’ for celebritiesthat were supposed to be in townfor the nightit all quickly becamevery boring to mewhen you live in a town that rolls 24/7you can either do everythingor do very littleI hadn’t lived theremore than a couple weeksbefore I found myselfpolishing the bathroom mirroron a Saturday night ordigging up a pair of tweezersto go after a few rogue back hairs

DON’T DO ITevery eveningif I hadn’t alreadyI’d feel the need to get uppour myself a glass of wineor go outside on the patioto smoke a cigarettethere was no chemical desireand I didn’t do those thingsto escape fromanything in particular I just felt like doing somethingthat everybodywas always telling me not to do

HE WAS TRYING TO TELL ME WHAT TO DOI was in this thrift storeoff Charleston blvdsorting through the dress shirtsto find something I could wearto a job interviewif one ever came my waythe prices weren’t half badbecause that dayeverything was fifty percent offso there I was trying on shirtswhen this old timer came up to meand began to yammer awaysomething about the tremendous bargainson that particular special dayafter he pushed his cart up between ushe yelled, “if you need to move my cart,go right ahead. I can’t hear good, see?so if you say something to meand I don’t respond don’t take offense.I just don’t hear good.”I nodded through my hangoverand slowly edged away from himhe was one of those peopleyou just didn’t enjoy being aroundone of those peoplewho just brought you downyou could tellhe had a lot to sayand nobody to say it toanother minute passedand without looking my wayhe yelled out again“now, I’m not trying to tell you what to do,understand me,but there are some real deals herein this store today.Now, like I said,I’m not trying to tell you what to do,you’re a grown man,but there are some real deals here todaythat you should take advantage of.”I kinda noddedtried to tune him outbut then he walked overand nudged me in the ribswinked and said,“I’m not trying to tell you what to do.I’d never do that.”he stood there grinning this stupid grinI didn’t know what to say so I said,“well, thanks, I guess,for not trying to tell me what to do.”he coughed and moved backto where he’d been sifting through the shirtsafter a few more minutes passedhe pulled a shirt off the rack and said,“now, I’m not trying to tell you what to door anything like that, but I think this shirtwould look great on you.”he let his standard pause go by before he said,“…not that I’m trying to tell youwhat to do or what to buy or how to dress.”the shirt he held up was clearlytwo or three sizes too big.“no, thanks,” I told him, turning back to the rack.but the crazy fuck just stood therewith a shaky grinholding up the shirtpushing it out to me every couple seconds.I realized he must not have heard meso I turned again and was about to shout,“no thanks” a second timebut he came towards meand shoved the shirt into my handsgoing on about how he wasn’t tryingto tell me what to door what to buyor how to dressfinally I just slammed the hanger hookonto the rack and barked,“listen you old bastard,stop telling me that you’re not tryingto tell me what to do! Because you clearly are!Christ, this is ridiculous!”a few people in the store looked overI rang my hands at the ceilingstormed out to my carback to my roomwhere I could shut the doorpull the sheets over my headand keep the world at bay.

PALMERPalmer was this friend of minewho never had much money growing upI had quite a few friends like thatuntil we went our separate waysthen I had new friendsthat didn’t have much moneybut anywayPalmer was living in Maui andI went to visit himif anybody has a placeanywhere I want to gomost likely I’ll end up there at some pointat least for a week or twocrashing on their couchor their flooror in their vanparked out in front of their houseI just hate to pay for hotels.so Palmer said to me,“yeah, come and visit,it’s not much of a place,but you’re welcome to stay a little while.”it sure as hell wasn’t much of a placeit was this cinder block cellfilled with junkcrawling with ants and roaches.“just about what I expected,”I said to Palmer when I arrived.But what I didn’t expectwas that strewn inwith the rotting food and garbagewere little piles of moneyon the coffee tablethe counterthe bathroom sinkand all over his bed.“what the fuck is this?” I asked him,pointing to the piles of billssome folded neatlysome just crumpled up.“oh, those,” he said quietly“well, I’ve got this jobwhere I make some decent money now.”I looked around the placeamazed at the number of piles“so this is what you dowith it, huh?”“well, I never had any beforeso now that I do,I like to keep it around in plain view.I like to be able to see itand lie around in it,just be reminded that it’s there”a few moments passedthen he became very seriouspointed his finger at me and said,“but I know exactly how muchis in each pile, so don’t you fuckin’ daretry and steal any of it”

WHEN YOU AIN’T GOT SHITthe economy had shit the bedand quite a few people werepissed off and upset about their lossesa friend from back eastcalled late one nighttold me he’d lost more than halfhis holdings in the stock marketanother couple friendshad lost their jobsjoined the growing ranksof the unemployedone night whenplaying a dollar a spinon a Super Six wheelin the New York New Yorkthe old dealer manwhispered to me,“last year my house was worth $865,000.Now I’d be lucky to get $280,000 for it.”I was only twenty eightbut I knew I could retire comfortablyfor the rest of my lifeon 280 fuckin’ grand.but all these poor bastardsthey had these tremendous lossesto pine overto keep them up at nighteyes wide open in the darkfear beating in their heartsme, I lost nothingI didn’t have any investmentsto get wiped out,no job to get laid off from,no house whose value might plummetI was in the clear, baby, because,to paraphrase Dylanwhen you ain’t got shit,you ain’t go shit to lose.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

THE ANNOYING ONESone time I went to community collegedown in south Floridaon the first day of classesI was riding the bus to schoolthere was this fucking assholegoing around and talking to everybodyhe was introducing himselfand asking stupid questions like,“what’s your name?” and“what are you studying?”he was writing down all this informationfilling up his little black bookwhen he finally came up to me I tried to ignore himbut this little fuckergot right down into my facekept belching words.Finally I said to him,“what the hell are you doing?”he looked aroundto see if anybody elsehad heard mewhen he felt safe he whispered to me,“hey, just don’t tell anybody elseyou know my game, okay?”then he walked awaydown the aisle to harass somebody elseI checked my pockets and bagto make surehe hadn’t made off with anythingand then I dismissed himas just another accidentof human breedingseemed there were plentyof those mishaps out thereand they all had an affinityfor taking rides on the public buses

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

LUNCHNo matter what job I workedmy co-workers were was always shockedwhen they’d discoverthat I’d packed a lunch to workit was this whole big thingthat I was trying to save moneyby not eating outat some fast food restaurant“oh, SMART guy!” my boss used to say.“you see this, guys? He PACKED his lunch.He’s a SMART guy.”I really didn’t see what the big deal wasthen they’d go crazy when they’d noticeI’d wrapped my sandwichin a shopping baginstead of a ziplock baggie.I always liked recyclingjust seemed to make sense.“holy SHIT!”this painter shouted at me oncebrows in a big frowneyes wide openlike they were witnessing a rape“you wrap your SANDWICHin a shopping bag? Are you crazy?”“could be,” I replied.I don’t even want to get intowhen I’d be spotted drinking tap waterbut it really freaked some people out.“you can’t- you shouldn’t drink THAT water!”they’d scream, horrifiedit got to the point whereI’d sneak off alone during lunchjust so I could relax and eat in peace.

Friday, October 24, 2008

“the Kid,” I said, speaking to a sheet that divided the room in which I was sleeping with the sparsely furnished living room. “now there’s an example of a whole different species.”

Nielson pulled back the curtain and poked his head in. “yeah, you’re really one to talk. You’re wearing a Jim Beam vest that used to be a t shirt, an American flag bandana, a showgirl mask facing backwards and a pair of commando pants.”

“these are mere accessories to my lifestyle as an American, you fuck. I’m just exercising my rights here. It’s still a free country within the confines of your own home, haha. As long as you haven’t made the Terror Watch list yet. And as long as you keep the shades down and the noise at socially acceptable levels.”

“yeah, jackass, it’s guys like me who are responsible for that freedom you’re enjoying.”

Nielson was an ex-Marine who’d done two tours in Iraq and he never missed a chance to chime in about the freedom he fought to protect. Since his honorable discharge, he shared my affinity for chronic unemployment but to his credit he’d found a way to live comfortably on a supposed mental disability check and unemployment pay.

“whatever, Marine. Get your fuckin’ head out of my room.”

Twenty minutes passed as I tried to figure out a way to build a guitar stand with a few pieces of wood I’d nabbed from a broken futon out front. Like most projects I’ve embarked on, it was doomed from the start. I soon gave up and went to the fridge for a beer.

Nielson was watching a television show about the ten things most likely to end the human race.

“you know what’s next?” I asked, slumping onto a filthy, piss-stained sofa with the grime so ingrained you could barely make out the tacky floral pattern. He looked over at me and watched as I snapped open my beer and took a sip.

“where’s mine?”

“in the fridge.”

“I’m not gonna get up.”

“I never asked you to. Anyway, number seven is black holes. They say that scientists first thought that black holes remained in one place, but it turns out some of those bastards are roaming around space, just devouring entire galaxies and solar systems and shit.”

“hmm, kinda like you. Just roaming around my apartment, devouring entire cases of beer and boxes of cereal.”

I laughed because he was right on with that one.

“now, will you get me a beer?”

“hmm. On one condition.”

“no! No, you can’t shoot me with your gun.”

Since I’d been down there in Wilmington, NC, living in his place and eating his food and drinking his beer, I’d developed this bad habit of shooting him with my air pistol. He’d be watching television and I’d be in the other room and I’d draw back the sheet just enough to sight his toe and then POP!

“OWWW! ARGGHHH! What the FUCK, man?! Why do you keep shooting me with that fucking thing?”

The only time I heard him swear, aside from calling me a jackass, was after I shot him. That was half the reason I did it. I liked to hear him swear. Usually he was saying things like, “holy smokes” and “gosh darn it” and that irritated the hell out of me.

“c’mon, grab me a beer.”

“please?”

“no! I’m not gonna let you shoot me for getting me a beer. Don’t you ever just wanna do something nice for somebody?”

“sometimes.”

“well, how about now?”

I got bored of the conversation and knew it would continue until I got him a beer so I got up and went to the fridge, thinking, “I’ll just shoot him later for this one.”

After the next commercial came the part of the show about the wandering black holes. And after that was the possibility that a certain asteroid, which was scheduled to just miss earth in the year 2029 would swing back and knock us out in 2036. It made me happy because I worried less about getting a job and settling down.

As soon as I got close to finishing my beer I could feel Nielson’s eyes move from the television screen to my beer can. He knew I had a little asteroid of my own. The way we did it was that whenever each of us finished a can of beer we’d throw it at the other’s head. It was just another game we played to keep the boredom at bay. To make things a little more interesting.

I tried to fake like there was more in the can than there actually was, but it’s impossible to finish a beer without tipping the can all the way up.

“I know you’re done, jackass.”

“maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”

He took another sip from his can and I side-armed it at him, clipping the back of his head and then dodging an immediate retaliation. His hit the couch but then bounced back and splashed on my shirt.

“you didn’t even finish your fucking beer, Marine. Now it’s your turn to get up.”As lazy as he was, Nielson played by the drinking rules we’d established. He got up, went to the fridge, tossed me another beer and sat down again.

“so, you find a job today?” he asked.

“there’s nothing out there.”

“did you even look?”

“yes, MOM, I fuckin’ looked. Everybody wants you to have a degree in accounting or engineering and ten years in the field. You gotta be familiar with all these goddamn computer programs, as well as being a motivated self-starter who can work well, like, independently and on a team. You gotta have a clean criminal record, a clean driving record and a North Carolina driver’s license.”

I turned to him and swallowed hard.

“do you think I have any of that?”

“holy smokes. You are kinda screwed.”

He grinned and looked back to the television.

“you know what the biggest threat to humanity is?”

“you?”

“no, seriously.”

“I’m trying to watch the show, here.”

“it’s climate change. Global warming. Hell, I don’t even need a job because we’re all gonna drown or fry or eat off each other’s faces within the next few years. Maybe I’ll just coast along until then, drinking your beer and eating your food.”

He glared at me as though he believed it was a serious possibility.

“or maybe,” I said, standing up and walking to a map I’d tacked on the wall. “just maybe, one of these days, I’ll throw my shit in my jeep and drive my ass out to Vegas. Anybody can make it there, right? And if one of these calamities does happen, like if we do engage in all out nuclear war, (that’s the second on the list), I won’t even know until the very end because I’ll be holed up in the corner of some dark casino, drinking whiskey and watching the roulette wheel spin around and around and around. And by then…well…who knows?”

I’M FUCKIN OUTTA HEREThere were a couple things I didn’t likeabout that apartment.The first was thatthere were always cockroachesin the bathroom.Sometimes they were big motherfuckersand sometimes just babies,but either waythey just stood where they were,never moving. OccasionallyI’d blow one apart with my BB gunbut sure enough, the next night,another had taken his place.In the corner,on the ceiling,under the toilet,those bastards just stood there,waiting,making me nervous as hell.I didn’t like thatThe second thingwas that these college kidshad moved in next doorand there was this one chickthat just cried all night long.She wailed and wailedand she did this right on the other side of the wallfrom my bedroom. At firstI thought about going over therebanging on the doormake sure she was all right.Then I just got annoyed.It’s not natural for a human beingto be capable of crying that much.She put babies to shame with those gigantic sobs.and that was how I spent my timein that apartment.Being wary of cockroachesand going to sleep to the soundof some girl next doorballing her eyes out.The only upside was that I wasn’t paying rent.I hated paying rent.I had this fierce aversion to payingfor a place to sleep at nightwhen there were so many free places,like park benchesor fire escapes or 24 hour laundromats. Anyway,it wasn’t long before I cut out of there.“fuck this,” I said one day.“I’m fuckin’ outta here.”

Monday, October 13, 2008

I took another pull from my Blue Moon and scrolled to his number on my cell phone. I giggled before pressing TALK. After two and a half rings he picked up and murmured, “what’s up, dude?”

A moment later I screamed into the phone, “NATION! How the hell are those waves out there?”

I always had to trick him into talking with me because most of the time I called just to berate him about loathsome qualities he didn’t possess or to squeal about my own doubts and anxieties. How I’d never make it as a writer, or how we’d all soon be sex slaves to a super race of bisexual Chinese business tycoons.

I was always having these thoughts like, “times are strange and things are weird”or “it’s a fucked up world out there and it’s a fucked up world in here.”

It was a wonder to me that Nation ever answered my phone calls.

“not bad, dude. I work at Scripts now, so it’s only five minutes from being at work to being in the water.”

There was a hint of excitement in the big bastard’s voice. “it’s tight, dude. I get to surf on my lunch breaks.”

Woopty – doo! I get to drink myself into oblivion and wake up on fire escapes or in people’s trunks. We all have our fetishes.

I took another drink from my Blue Moon and then reached in, fished out the orange wedge and noisily sucked it apart.

“what are you up to?” he asked.

I hesitated before whispering, “well, Nation, I’m doing a little work for this company. I’m a producer. And a researcher.”

I looked around the booth. There were a half dozen empty pint glasses with orange rinds in the bottom and a few clippings from newspapers I’d pasted to the wall with Pete’s Hot Sauce. The clippings were of big breasted cartoon aliens and I’d set them up so that they were attacking a framed photograph of James Dean.

“oh yeah? That’s cool.”

“it is cool, isn’t it?”

“what kinda company, or, research are you doing?”

I could tell his excitement was fading. He’d probably begun to tap his pen on his desk.

“Nation,” I hissed, now above a whisper. “that’s not important. What is important is that I need funding for a small porno I wanna shoot and I’ve decided you’re my man, moneypants.” I began to snigger and then gasped, “now that you’re a fucking DOCTOR! DOCTOR Nation, now, right?”

“Nation goddamn it! This isn’t a joke. Not some schlepshow idea by some schlepshow rookie. This is the REAL DEAL. Now, how much can I expect from you? I’ll need at least fifty grand for starters. Even in this economy these midgets aren’t cheep. You can send a bank check to four twen-”

I kept yelling profanities into the phone long after he’d hung up. Then I turned to one of the big breasted cartoon aliens and smashed a pen through her stomach and into the wall. Over the rim of my pint of Blue Moon I saw one of the cooks’ heads peep out from the kitchen. He’d been on my case all morning.

A few moments later my waiter approached. He noticed the pen sticking out from the wall and turned to me.

“sir, is everything all right?”

I looked away, at the wall, regarding the cartoon, then splashed some more hot sauce under the pen so it looked like she was bleeding from the stomach. Spicy, tasty blood. I was just about to lick it off the wall when my waiter raised his voice.

“sir! You’re going to have to-

“no! No, kid. Nothing is all right. In fact, everything is terrible. And wrong.”

A few tense moments crept by before I tossed a twenty on the table, grabbed my things and growled, “and it’s all your fault.”

On my way past the kitchen I stopped and stuck my face in through the order window and yelled to the cook who’d ratted me out.

“hey! Hey you!”

He turned and frowned and balled his fists as though he’d been waiting for this moment all morning.

“hey, take a good luck at this face here, all right? Because you’ll never be seeing it again.”

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

I looked around for something else to throw. There was my drink, but I wanted that. I needed that.

“that cocksucker’s been trying to get me in trouble ever since I started dating you.”

“Jack, please-“

“NO! that’s it!”

I kicked over a chair and flipped the kitchen table.

“first he told the fuckin’ cops I was selling blow when I was bartending at Quiggey’s, and now he’s telling them I over-served his friend?! Are you fuckin’ kidding me? If his friend can’t handle his liquor, he shouldn’t order it. Fuck! I feel bad for the poor kid, but you can’t tell me I’m responsible for his death. FUCK that! I didn’t shove him into his car, turn the key and ram his foot on the gas. That was his own choice. Good or bad, it was his own, not mine! Oh, these fuckin’ laws! ARGGHHHH!! This fuckin’ state, this COUNTRY!! What the hell is happening to this fuckin’ country?”

“Nobody takes any responsibility for their actions anymore. It’s a country full of cocksuckers! That’s what it is. Litigious, pathetic cocksuckers, and it’s ruining America. Hell, it’s ruining the whole world, that’s what it’s doing! The whole world- the world is a cocksucker!”

I stopped for a second, looked over at her. The thought of her being with that sub-human excuse for a man who’d ratted me out to the police for something I probably hadn’t even done, it made me feel worse than anything.

“Jane,” I snarled. “let’s be honest with each other. This bastard is out to get me. He always has been. I’ve known that, but this is different. Now he’s telling his cop friends bullshit about me? Bullshit that they’re believing!”

“you said it before, Jack. They don’t have any proof because you didn’t do any of it. It’ll all blow over.”

“but look at the way it works these days. These people, this community. They don’t care about proof. They don’t care about justice. Not when it comes to alcohol. They just wanna see somebody hang. They’ll go after the driver first. If he’s dead, then they’ll go after the server, then the establishment. It’s all greed, that’s what it is. Fuck, though. It’s always been like this, right? It’s just never been my ass in the hot seat. Not this hot.”I clenched my teeth and bent my head and clawed at the back of my neck.

“ARRGGHHHHH! I’m SO, FUCKING ANGRY!!”I looked around for something else to destroy but then decided against it.

“and now I don’t even have a goddamn phone again! I’m always ruining my fucking phones!!”

I drank my drink down and poured another but they were doing nothing. I rehashed the conversation I’d had with that cop, Officer Dipshit.

“we have a witness that said he saw you serving the kid that night.”

A fucking witness? It was a packed bar and I was doing my job. I was serving drinks. I’d imagine there was more than one guy out of two hundred that saw me serving drinks.

“I may have served him. I really don’t know. I don’t know the kid you’re talking about, though. I don’t even recognize his last name, from having a tab or anything.”

“well, the witness, who says he knows you, said he saw you serving the kid.”

“well, sir, who exactly said they saw me serving him? Because lots of people seem to know me, but I don’t know any of them. Maybe by face I’d know them, but, I mean, come on. It’s not like Iknow everybody who comes into the bar. I might pretend like I do, but I really don’t. Besides, if this witness saw me serving the kid, why didn’t- if he was friends with him, why did he let him go and drive off, huh? Sounds like a shitty friend to me.”

“I can’t tell you names, um, Jack. But listen, we’re gonna need you to come down to the station tomorrow and give a written report. We’ll probably want to ask some more questions, too.”

And I’m probably gonna want to shit in between the layers of your lasagna.

“well, do whatever you gotta do, officer-”

“it’s ‘detective.’”

“oh, sorry. I don’t know much about the ranking system you guys have.”

“just be expecting a call soon, okay?”

“yeah, sure,” I said, “whatever.”

“hey, you know what? You have a real bad attitude and it’s gonna get you in trouble someday. Maybe someday soon.”

“well, you know what, officer? A bad attitude never killed a kid.”

That was when I hung up the phone and threw it at the wall. I took a few deep breaths and then ploughed through the rest of my drink.

“Janesies?”

“yeah?”

“hmm.”

“what?”

“I think it’s time.”

“time for what?”

I narrowed my eyes and looked sideways at her for a moment.

“time for me to get the fuck outta here.”

I went about picking up the table and arranging the chairs. I didn’t bother with the phone. I’ve broken enough phones to know just how hard they have to hit something to be unfixable, and I threw it plenty hard.

“where will you go?”

“where will I go? I was thinking it would be more like, ‘where will we go?’”

“Jack, I have a life here. Everything I know is here. My job, my family, my friends. I can’t just run off. It’s not that easy.”

I had this soul patch on my face. Most of my friends made fun of me because of it, called me a fag and things like that. But I really couldn’t help rubbing it with the tip of my index finger when I had to think to pretty hard. And my eyes always just darted around the room like I was trying to follow a fly. Finally they settled back on Jane. I knew I’d miss her. But sometimes you get those feelings like you just gotta get outta someplace.

If I left, I knew I’d be in trouble. But if I stayed, I knew I’d be in a lot more trouble. It was pretty exciting, knowing I was about to be on the run. I’ll bet it was mostly the bourbon that made it exciting, though. But think of all those times when you’re young and you get in trouble and you’re sitting around with your friends and somebody says, “well, there’s always Mexico.” Like Mexico was this place of ultimate freedom. Like it was sneaking into heaven.

“maybe I’ll go to Mexico, babe.”

Jane burst out laughing.

“Mexico? Mexico, Jack? You’re not even in trouble yet. The cops just want to talk to you. You haven’t even been charged with anything!”

“Janers, I just have a bad feeling about all of this.”

“you always have bad feelings about things. And besides, since when do you follow every single one of your feelings?”

“Jane,” I said, “don’t downplay this. I could be in real deep shit. I’ve heard of this happening before. To bartenders, even a waitress of two. They get fucked by the law because some state or town wants to make an example of them. You know, show the world that they’re cracking down, being safe, being responsible. God, I hate that word. It’s all politics. It’s this whole War on Fun thing.”

“oh, god,” Jane sighed. She hated when I went off about this thing I referred to as the War on Fun.

“Jack, at least-“

“Jane!”

Poor Janie. She knew me better than I knew myself, but I’d never admit it to her. I was just too stubborn, especially after jumping on the whiskey train.

“you’re not gonna talk me outta this.”

“well, what about us? This is it? We’re through, just like that?”There I was, rubbing that soul patch again. It pissed me off that she didn’t wanna just up and leave, too. We’d been together for a while. It seemed like I was about to embark on this big, important life-changing journey, and she was just like, “nah, fuck it. I’m not interested.”

“I can’t stay here, babe. I just can’t. Not in this town, not anymore. I’ve had too many brushes with the law over things like this. I feel like I’m pushing my luck.”

She stood there, shaking her head.

“I’ve gotta get outta here, Jane,” I said, a smile creeping onto my face. “they’re...after me.”My smile grew and grew and was a tell all smile which she’d seen a hundred times before.

“you lunatic,” she yelled. “are you serious? You’re such a weirdo!”

The smile turned into this big shit – eating grin. The cat was out. I began to laugh and then sniffle because the laughter was making my nose run. I pulled out the seat I’d knocked over and sat down in it. The laughter wouldn’t quit. For minutes on end I banged on the table and slapped my thighs and gasped for breath.

“was that- are you just- was that even the cops on the phone?”

I laughed louder and finally leaned my head back and began to roar. The tears ran down my face and I didn’t even wipe them away. Why wipe away tears of joy?

“you know you broke your phone, remember? It IS broken. Was that all part of your joke, too?”She came over to the table with the phone. The back had fallen off and the battery was out and the screen was shattered. I brought it to my ear and shook it. Anytime a phone rattles when it didn’t before, that means it’s broke beyond repair. This one rattled like a bastard.

“Jack, that was, like, a two hundred dollar phone. You don’t even have insurance anymore!”

“ahhh godd!! I know. I know it, Janers! Ahhhh!”

She pulled out a chair and sat down across the table.

“and why do you always have to bring up my ex boyfriends?”

“oh, come on! I was just joking around!”

“well, Jack, some things aren’t as funny to me as they are to you.”

I knew that was true.“all right, all right. Sorry, babe. Well, what do you wana do tonight?”She stared at me and shook her head. I figured she was putting some serious thought into why the hell she put up with me. I didn’t wanna give her too much time to realize she didn’t have an answer.

HOUSEMATESThere was one thingthat really pissed me offabout living with those guysit was that they’d neverrefill the ice trays.They’d just use all the ice cubesto make their drinksand then they’d leave the trayout on counterand move onto the next one.And after all the trays were empty,they just stopped using ice altogether.I’d come home late at nightmaybe from work or some partyI’d go into the freezer to get iceto make a drinka ‘nightcap’ is what I’d call itbut there’d be no trays full of iceI’d look to the counterstacked up and emptythere they wereI’d swallow hard and blinkturn towards the ceilingtowards the second floortowards their bedroomsI’d scream,“oh! You lazy scumbags! What the fuckis wrong with you guys?”

LIKE MOTHER LIKE SONMy mother had turned fiftya few days before.She came back from workon a Tuesday afternoonsaid to me,“you know what? Now thatI’m fifty years old,I just don’t give a damn anymore.”I was seventeen at the timeI smiled back at her and said,“hell, ma, I’ve been feelingthat way for years.”

SOUTHERN BOURBON BEANSby Jack TomShe called me up on the phone and said, “I’m so low on money right now I’ve decided I won’t go to the grocery store until I finish all the food in my fridge and cupboards.”“so where are you now? Gotten to the canned goods yet?” “hee hee. Yeah. I’m eating beans on toast. It’s not so bad.” “naw, it’s not so bad. I’m on the canned goods, too. Right now I’m frying a can of black beans and flavoring them with cayenne pepper and Jim Beam.” “Jim Beam?” “yeah, I’m callin’ ‘em Southern Bourbon beans.” “did you just make that up?” “yeah.” “what’ll you eat them on?” “I’ve got some stale tortillas that I think I can make soft with a little more Jim Beam.” “you’re wasting a lot of whiskey on food, huh? That’s not like you.” “I don’t like me either.” “no, no. That’s not what I said.” “what’d you say?” “are you drunk? You don’t sound drunk.” “what does drunk sound like?” “you know, c’mon. You know how you sound when you’re drunk.” “do I sound like this? AHHH! AAHHHH FUCKKKK!! I’m SOOOO FUCKKIN’ DRUNKKK!” “hee hee. Yeah, exactly like that.” “ah, nice. I still got it.” “so, are you?” “listen, baby. We’re both eating out the last of our food. We’re broke and I’m jobless and the idea of us never being together again is worse than the idea of gouging out my eyes with dull pencils. Of course I’m drunk. How else could I make it through?” “oh, god.” “listen. I gotta go. These Southern bourbon beans are just about done. I’ll talk to you later.” “all right, Jack. goodbye.” “see ya around.”

Friday, July 25, 2008

MAYBE IT NEVER WASby JACK TOMI was lying on the floor in the empty room in her apartment where I’d slept the night before. Around ten she came down from her loft bedroom and lied down right next to me, in that little nook between my right arm and my chest.We spent a few moments staring at the ceiling. There was nothing on it, but that didn’t matter. Sometimes you just have to stare at a ceiling, pretending there’s some sort of wisdom stuck up there, like a piece of gum under a desk.“my mom is going crazy like you,” she said. “she feels like a person she’s never known before. And she’s sad all the time.”After saying this she looked over at me. I didn’t turn to see her looking, but I knew she was. I didn’t say anything back, not for a full minute. And a minute can be a really long time, sometimes. I focused on taking a deep breath because I felt like if I didn’t make an effort, my body wasn’t just gonna keep doing it by itself.“oh, god,” I sighed. “mothers. Poor, poor mothers. I don’t know how they do it. They certainly carry a tough burden, don’t they? I don’t know anyone in the world who has it worse than all of the poor, dear mothers.” “Jack,” she said. “do you think we’ll ever get back together. I mean, like, later on.” “I don’t know, babe. I hope so. I hope someday we can both get our lives back in order and that all this craziness will end. It’s just that, well, nothing seems real anymore. But then again, maybe it never was.”

MORE THAN ONE SITTINGEvery timeI’d write a storywhich I didn’t finishin the same sitting,I’d go back to it another day,read over what I hadand then think to myself,“oh, shit. how the hellwill I get out of this one?”Bad stories were like all bad things,easy to get into and hard to get out of.

A BAD LOVE STORYby JACK TOM We were crawling backwards on aching knees, priming new baseboards in a single bedroom unit off West Chester Street. The owner lady, some failed but wealthy architect from Germany, had graying black hair, thick black-rimmed glasses and a whine in her voice that made me want to stab her in the neck with my putty knife when she pointed to tiny imperfections in the wood and said, “vut about zeeeese? Vill you corrects zeeeese?” Jose, like me, would nod to her and then walk off and do something else, leaving her to become either frustrated or confused but never satisfied. Then, as soon as she left Jose would peer from his knees over the window sill and study her scrawny backside as she walked cautiously across the sand lot and went into another one of her nearly finished rental buildings. After she’d gone far enough Jose would turn to me and shout, “CALLATE!” “you fucking CALLATE!” I yelled back. “Callate your fuckin’ face! It’s Friday and it’s almost quittin’ time and I need a beer!” “oh!” Jose yelped. “I can’t wait to jrink! I wanna jrink! I’m gonna go out and get jrunk tonight. JRUNK!! Joo here me?” With two last strokes I finished the board I was working on and straightened my back, stretching it out. It hurt like a bastard from bending down all afternoon. I really hated that job and was always looking for some reason to quit. “jrunk!” I laughed back, looking at Jose. “JRRUNNK!” “that’s what I say, jrunk! My girlfriend and I, we break up last night. So tonight I go out, get jrunk!” “hahhh!” I shouted, getting to my feet. My whole body ached. It always did. Laboring away the days and in the nights numbing the pain with bourbon, which only brought about a different misery in the morning.“you two break up every week. Every Thursday, ha! I know you bring it about, too, just so you can go wild all weekend, ha!” Jose sat back on his feet and surveyed the piece of baseboard he’d just finished with mild satisfaction. He turned to me with a big, guilty smile and I could tell the thoughts in his head were processing what I’d just said, which again prompted him to shout, “CALLATE!” But that was the game he played. All week long he behaved well towards his old lady, charming her and conning her into thinking he was finally through with his drinking and his bouts of madness. But every Thursday night he would bait her into an argument. Maybe he’d mention that he’d like to go out for a drink with his work buddies the following night and how he needed some excitement. Something more than the domestic boredom in which he’d been living all week long.There would be yelling and screaming and finally this old lady of his would raise her fist and stomp the ground and pledge that it was over, that this was the last time. Jose would go out and sleep in his truck and come in to work on Friday morning with sore limbs and a crick in his neck, but a devilish, excited little grin on his face. According to La Viajita, an old El Salvadoran on the crew who’d told me all of this, it had been going on for longer than he could remember. “Jose,” I said, “que es el nombre de tu chica?” He stood up and walked towards the can of paint where I was already using my brush to wipe out the last few smears from my pail. “her nombre es Silvia, gringo. Why-joo care?” I mashed my brush against the lid of the can to get out as much of the paint as I could before dipping it into a bucket with a small amount of paint thinner at the bottom. “por que, if you two are broken up, maybe I could have a go with her.” I turned up to him, giving him a moment to understand. But it didn’t even take him a full second before he said, “ey, fuck joo, pendejo! I keel joo!” He glared at me with his ferocious Dominican eyes. “hey, calm down, Jose. I was just joking, just fuckin’ around, right?” “no! no right. Joo no say shit like that to me!” “si, si. Comprendo. Lo siento, sorry.” But I wasn’t sorry. I wasn’t sorry at all. Jose could go to hell for all I cared. What I was interested in was his old lady, Silvia, and if she was the same Silvia whose ass I’d grabbed and whose mouth I’d kissed at the Muse the previous Saturday night. When I told her that I painted houses, she’d said something about her boyfriend, ahem, ex boyfriend being a painter like me. But hell, there were over a thousand painters on that little island. I recalled her mentioning something about a breakup, though, and that if they ended up getting back together she’d only give him one more chance. And I figured Jose had used up that one chance. “so, Jose, where are you going tonight? Maybe I’ll join you. I’d like to buy you a beer.” I was slapping my brush against a dirty rag to get the thinner out. He looked at me and maybe thought I was kidding him. And I was kidding him, but he didn’t have to know. “no se. Probably La Cantina.” “La Cantina?” “it’s good place, gringo. Cheap beer.” I knew it was a good place and I knew they had cheap beer, too. I’d only been on that island a month and that was plenty of time to learn a little about every bar. “well, then. La Cantina. I’ll probably make it out around ten.” I finished slapping out my brush and wrapped the cardboard cover around it and tucked it into my bag. “adios, Jose.” I glanced back for just a single moment and saw that he was pondering the little conversation we’d just had in that wild brain of his. I stepped out into the sandy construction site but before I closed the door Jose called to me. “Yack!” he said, failing to pronounce my name correctly. I turned and looked back inside. He was smacking his brush on the same dirty rag I’d used. “what?” “CALLATE!!” “yeah, whatever. Remember to close the door.”

That night I didn’t go out to the Cantina. I knew Jose would be there and I didn’t want to see him. Working with him all day wasn’t that bad, but I couldn’t spend the whole night with him too. After shooting a bunch of whiskey, I went to the Muse, hoping that Silvia would be there. She wasn’t there when I got there, but that’s because I went very early, in order to get a seat at the bar. I don’t like it when I have to stand at bars to drink. I could stand in my kitchen if I wanted to do that, or in my basement. I also went that early so that I could look nonchalant, like I just happened to be there again, not that I was purposely looking out for her. She came in around ten thirty and she was looking good. Better than good. For a moment I wondered why the hell Jose ever broke it off with her, never mind why he did it purposely every week. But then, every man gets tired of the same piece of ass, day in and day out. Some won’t admit it, but they do. Silvia had on a pair of jeans and a white blouse and her hair was in a pony tail. Her body was nice. Latin and curvy, but it was her face that destroyed me. She had one of those faces that was so beautiful it actually hurt to look at, like it could drive a man insane. I wondered, for a moment, whether Jose had always been the way he was, or if this Silvia chica had somehow broken his mind. But I kept trying not to think of Jose. It’s never nice to think about a man who has done the things that you want to do with the girl you want to do them with. As soon as the doorman handed back her ID I turned away and took a sip of my drink, watching her out of the corner of my eye. For a moment I thought she was alone because she took a few steps towards the bar while glancing around, but then she spun around and smiled as two of her friends dealt with the doorman. “of course,” I muttered to myself. “it’s not too many girls that go out to the bar alone.” I took the opportunity to give her a long up and down and decided that she looked just as good, if not better, than she looked the previous weekend. Maybe it was the blouse. It came down almost to her jeans but the way she had it tied in front you could spot just an inch of smooth, brown skin. I clenched my teeth and looked away at the television. There was a baseball game on. There was almost always a baseball game on, and if there wasn’t, they were showing the highlights of past baseball games. In one of the mirrors behind the bar I snuck a peek at Silvia. She and her friends were making their way towards the ladies room. “chicks,” I snorted. The first thing they always do after getting into any bar is to go straight to the bathroom. I always wondered what they did in there. Were they looking at themselves in the mirror? Taking a piss? Snorting lines off the toilet bowl? I decided right then that as soon as she came out I’d go up to her and say hello. If I didn’t some other fool would and I didn’t want that. When they came out they approached the bar opposite me. It was perfect. She looked over and I gave it a second and then smiled like I’d just noticed her. She waved me over and I nearly fell off my bar stool because my body had started moving before my legs had left the rungs. “Jack,” she said to me, pronouncing it how it should be pronounced. “como esta?” “Silvia! Hello. How are you doin’?” “I am good, thank you. These are my friends, Esmeralda and Gloria.” I loved Hispanic girls. Their names, their faces, their bodies, their attitudes. They had something there which I’d never found in other girls. “nice to meet you,” I said, shaking their hands and leaning in to give them each a kiss on the cheek. “can I buy you a drink?” I asked Silvia, nodding to the others. I didn’t want to buy them all a drink but in that sort of situation you can’t just offer to buy a drink for the one girl you’re going after. For a split second I wondered how many drinks I’d bought for how many girls in that same way. All three smiled and said, “thank you.” “well, what’ll you have?” They discussed briefly what each wanted and then Silvia said to me, “Bacardi and coke?” “three Bacardi and cokes?” I asked her. “si, yes.” “bien,” I smiled. “tres Bacardi y cokes.” The two bartenders were watching the television and swapping stupid comments with each other. The bastards. Couldn’t they see I needed some service? After a moment I said to Silvia, “why don’t you guys go sit down at a table, and I’ll bring the drinks over.” She smiled and said, “yes, thanks” and they moved off towards a table near the outdoor smoking deck. As soon as they were gone I leaned in and said, “excuse me,” but the bartenders were the type that did everything on their own time. They’d tasted the power of their position, the ability to choose when to administer drinks to the desperate, pleading customers. I hated them for this. “hey!” I finally shouted. “could I get some drinks over here?” One of them put on this severely annoyed face and moseyed over to take my order. He mixed up three Bacardi and cokes. Afterwards he poured me a Budweiser draft. “twenty five,” he said to me, like it was nothing. I handed him a twenty and a fiver, left a couple bucks on the bar and carefully grasped the four drinks to head off to the table and the girls. Esmeralda and Gloria were dolls just like Sylvia. I sat there sipping at my beer and thinking how lucky I was to be sitting there with three Latin beauties. Sylvia asked me enough questions to keep me in the conversation but for the most part I just sat there and nodded and divided my time staring between them. I made sure to take it easy on my beer at first so I didn’t hit bottom before them but these girls were clearly not big drinkers. Instead of waiting around for them to finish first and offer to return the drink, I decided to really suck mine down so that they each still had half a drink left when I asked if anybody needed a drink. But when I did they all glanced at their glasses and said, “oh, yes, thank you.” I felt nauseas for a moment. That would be another twenty something bucks. Why had I even asked? I remembered I was trying to get laid, and how I always did stupid things when I was trying to get laid. Probably most of the stupid things done in the world are directly due to a guy trying to get into some girl’s pants. “okay. Well, I’ll be right back.” They all smiled and I got up and walked to the bar. From behind I recognized the thick, sturdy frame of La Viejita, that old El Salvadoran who worked with us on the crew. I wondered what the hell he was doing there. I didn’t even think he ever went out to bars. After a moment’s consideration of whether or not to try and dodge him I said, “fuck it,” and went right up to him. “La Viejita,” I said to him. “que pasa aqui?” “oh, Yack,” he smiled. “I here to drink beer, si?” “si,” I said. It did make sense. “pero, no para, uh, meet chicas?” La Viejita laughed into his beer and shook his head. It was like the idea of going after chicks was a dirty thing to him. “por que?” I asked. “no more woman, no for me. Too many woman, all bad. I feel like slave when I with woman. No more. No for me.” I glanced back at the table. Sylvia and Esmeralda and Gloria were all talking and laughing. I stared at them for a full minute until I caught Sylvia look towards me, probably wondering where their drinks were. “fuckin’ a,” I mumbled. “I know what you mean.” I stood there, waiting for the lazy bartenders to notice me. I knew since I’d left them a meager tip last time that it would take even longer this time. I’d probably be there for fifteen minutes. “so,” said La Viejita without moving his head. “who are the chicas?” I looked at him out of the side of my eyes, wondering if he’d ever met Sylvia. But he had this simple, old poker face that portrayed nothing except a mild satisfaction with the mixed drink he was sipping. “just some girls I met.” “hmm. Latinas, si?” “yeah, they’re Latinas.” I turned towards him again and he sucked the rest of the drink out of his glass and slowly rose from the stool. After checking his pockets to make sure he had everything he’d come with, he bent his head and said very softly, “joo be careful, Yack. Muy cuidado.” With that cold warning he reached out his hand, shook mine and headed towards the door. As soon as he was outside I began to kick myself for not asking what he meant by, “be careful.” Or rather, who to be careful of. Did he know? “yeah?” asked the same bartender who’d served me earlier, still completely disinterested. “I’ll have another round. The three Bacardi Cokes and a Bud draft.” He mixed up the drinks and then poured a draft, leaving nearly two inches of head on top. The bastard. “twenty five.” “I know,” I said, sneering at the beer. I gave him two twenties and when he gave me my change I left a dollar and walked away. Fuck him. I brought the drinks back to the table and sat down. “thank you,” they all chirped. “no problema.” There was this DJ setting up his equipment in one of the dark corners of the bar. “so,” I said, looking at Sylvia. “do you girls dance? Bailar?” She flashed her eyes and smiled this great big smile. “of course. And you?” “yeah,” I said, snorting. “sure.” I really couldn’t dance unless I’d had a lot to drink, and then I couldn’t really dance either, just thought I could. “well, kinda. You’ll have to teach me some moves.” Sylvia seemed to welcome my pathetic advances and that made me pretty happy. I kept sneaking glances at the line of dark skin below her shirt, hoping I’d soon be seeing more of it. I took it easy on that second beer, wanting anything but to buy another round for all three of them. Soon the DJ had set up all his stuff and the music started. In a bold move which I’d never made before, I asked Sylvia to come out onto the empty dance floor to dance with me. I’d taken on this kamakazi mindset about the night, like it was the last one I’d ever have. After enough drinks, that’s how I usually felt about every night. Once the DJ began to play the music I looked over to Sylvia and gave her the nod. “we finish our drinks, first?” “yeah, yeah. Sure.” She took her time with her drink and I began to wonder whether she was stalling of if she was just a real slow drinker. Some girls are. I listened to them speak and tried to pick out words and phrases. “okay, Jack. We dance?” “yeah, nice.” She led me out onto the dance floor, showing no signs of self consciousness. I wished I’d had a few more drinks, but at the same time I knew that of the two of us, anybody watching would be looking at her rather than me. Some sort of contemporary salsa club music came on and she began moving in this terribly sexy way. I immediately regretted suggesting that we dance because next to her I had nothing. “okay, can you show me some moves?” She smiled and kept dancing, probably not having heard what I said. Then she took one of my hands and began to kinda guide me along and it felt nice to be touching her hand. Nobody else came out onto the dance floor until the second song began but I didn’t mind because I was just looking at Sylvia’s handsome face and sneaking peeks at that line of dark skin. She was very good at guiding me through little shuffles and hip moves and halfway through the second song I said to myself, “shit, I’m not half bad.” When the third song began a few other couples came out onto the floor and as soon as that happened more and more jumped in and suddenly we were having to be careful of knocking into other people. “you are not bad dancer,” she said, leaning her head back and in towards my ear. “tsss,” I said. “it’s because you’re a good teacher.” “no, no. You are very relaxed.” I laughed because it wasn’t true but decided I’d go with it. “well, it’s relaxing being around you.” “aw,” she said, patting my shoulder. We took a break after that song. Her friends were talking to two guys who’d bought them drinks so I turned to Sylvia and said, “another Bacardi and Coke?” She hesitated for a moment, deliberating whether she should have a third. “I’m not a big drinker, Jack.” “okay, but I’m gonna go get another beer.” I left her at the table and strutted off towards the bar, hoping that no other guy moved in on her. I wasn’t looking forward to going through the process of ordering another beer but the place had picked up and the bar was full and the bartenders had adjusted their speed accordingly. I went around the bar to where the other bartender was working and ordered a draft. He poured it quickly and poured it well and I paid him and left him a buck. Back at the table Sylvia was listening to one of the guys who was telling some story about a big fish he’d caught earlier that day with his buddy. I felt like whispering into his ear, “dude, these chicks don’t care about your fuckin’ fish. Scram!” But instead I slurped down my beer and looked forward to hitting the dance floor again. Although it was nice not being the center of attention anymore, it was much harder to dance when we returned to the floor. There were tons of people moving around, either dancing or just walking in circles and squeezing between the dancers. “Sylvia,” I said, in between songs. “I really like dancing with you.” “well, thank you. I like dancing with you, too.” I hesitated for a moment and then thought fuck it and said, “maybe we could go out sometime, the two of us, get a drink or some dinner?” “aw, I’d like that.” My body surged with this electric happiness and a big smile came onto my face. “all right!” I said, laughing. And then suddenly I was relaxed. I was probably the happiest guy out there on that dance floor, maybe even the happiest guy in the bar. But the happiness didn’t last more than one more song because as she was slowly turning us in a circle I looked away from her pretty face towards the door and noticed Jose at the entrance. The bouncer was checking his ID. A small part of me maintained the hope that this wasn’t the same Sylvia but deep down I was sure it was. I considered my options. I could quickly make up some reason to have to leave and then hope for luck on the date. Or I could go up to him and have it out right there. I decided on neither, instead just ignoring him. I wanted to see how Syvlia would react so I held onto her and kept dancing away, while carefully watching her eyes to see if I could notice when she saw him. “oh!” she said, her grip tightening on my hands. “oh, no.” “what?” “ay, shit.” “what’s wrong?” She kept staring at him for a few moments, not acknowledging anything I said. “this, this will not be good.” She’d stopped leading us around so that she could keep her eye on Jose. I turned my head to get a glimpse and right when I did he looked over. At first his face portrayed absolute shock and then I could see rage growing in his eyes. I turned away. “Sylvia, what’s wrong?” Her dark eyes settled on me and she said, “it’s my ex boyfriend. He’s, he’s crazy.” When she looked back I saw her eyes dart around to find him again and then they became wide with terror. I turned to look behind me but before I could I felt a fist land hard on the side of my face. “awww!” I yelled, falling against Sylvia and taking us both down. “ay,” she screamed, hitting the concrete floor. I looked up. Jose was standing there glaring down at me, snapping glances at Sylvia but mainly keeping his eyes on me. His nose and mouth were all mashed up like he’d just smelled the worst smell in the world. He was speechless with rage. Sylvia shouted something to him in Spanish, something so fast and vicious that I couldn’t catch it. The two of them exchanged these terrible looks. I thought for a moment about what to do. I had to get up and fight back, but I had to help Sylvia up, too. In a moment I decided on neither. Instead I just turned to her and grabbed her face and jammed my tongue into her mouth. I had no idea what the hell I was doing and neither did she, but she reciprocated and as we began to make out. I was having a hard time really enjoying it at first because I was waiting to feel Jose’s foot slam my head. But it didn’t. Instead, the strangest thing happened. We kissed harder and harder and then she rolled over onto me and I leaned back and we just had this great kiss that lasted nearly a minute. When I opened my eyes and saw Jose, still standing over us, socking his fists and screaming, “SYLVIA!!” She didn’t turn to look at him and didn’t even let up kissing me. God, she had these wonderful lips. “Yack!” Jose screamed, taking a step towards us. “I fucking keel you!”Immediately a few guys in the crowd grabbed him and held him back and then two bouncers showed up and began to drag him out as he swung his fists and cursed at me.After another minute I helped Sylvia up and her friends, who’d just now realized what had happened, came up to her and held her and asked if she was all right.We returned to the table and I ordered a whiskey and water and Sylvia said she’d go for anther Bacardi and Coke. There was a pleasant silence for a few minutes before everyone began asking questions about the whole ordeal which Sylvia shrugged off like it wasn’t that big of a deal. She really could play it cool.I was wondering if she would bring up the fact that Jose had yelled my name, and therefore obviously knew me, but she never did. We just drank our drinks and left that bar and after giving her a ride home and arranging to go on a date the following Tuesday, I said to her, “I can’t wait.” My face hurt a bit but it didn’t bother me much that Jose had decked me. Maybe it was deserved. Besides, that was reason enough to not show up at work on Monday, or Tuesday, or ever again for that painting job.

About Me

Jackson Warfield was born in a small town in New Hampshire on a dead end road. He has traveled widely and worked a variety of jobs, from digging ditches to walking dogs. He writes for entertainment, his own and others.